If I Go, I'm Goin'
by AndSoIWrite
Summary: Bobby's always had an open door policy with the boys. Even when they haven't called in months. Even when they show up injured. Even when one of them is dying. Hurt!Sam. Hurt!Dean. Oneshot.


**If I Go, I'm Goin'**

Saw a piece of fanart on tumblr. No further explanation needed.

(Find said fanart on my blog thesethingswillchangeus. I surrender all plot bunnies to that wonderful and terrible drawing.)

* * *

It was raining inside the Impala.

The rain was warm and dripping from above, running into Sam's eyes and burning. He blinked it away, or at least tried because this water was so thick it was making his eyelashes stick to his skin. It was making his eyes burn.

"D'n s' rainin'," he mumbled, as if this force of nature was an alarm clock his older brother could turn off. At the silence, one eye unstuck itself and in front of him Sam saw the Impala's steering wheel. No, that couldn't be right. Dean never ever let Sam drive, not even a few months ago when Dean's left thumb was attached to the rest of him by an inch of skin. Something about the memory of Dean being injured sent a jolt through Sam, as if the steering wheel itself had delivered a shock through the car.

And suddenly it wasn't rain but blood blurring Sam's vision. And suddenly Sam didn't care that his eyes felt like they were made of sandpaper. He twisted around in his seat, ignoring the shock of pain through his arm as he launched himself up so he could see into the backseat.

It was dark – maybe nighttime, Sam pondered – but he could make out a heap of unmoving _something._ A very Dean-shaped something. And when Sam crawled over his seat and pulled out a flashlight, something white flashed where skin should have been.

Sam turned back around and threw up into the passenger seat before putting the keys in the ignition. They were going to South Dakota.

xxx

Bobby Singer let out a string of curse words that would have made his late wife pinch him. That's how Karen always showed her displeasure of his rough habits; she'd just reach over and pinch him real simple, never enough to leave a bruise but always enough to make him blush. He set down the socket wrench and backed out from under the hood of the VW bus he was working on. Something was wrong with the engine and he couldn't quite get a grip on the problem.

"Stupid vehicle anyway," he muttered, grabbing a rag. He didn't like the unwieldy machines, didn't understand why people would want to stand out in such a way as to drive around a car/truck/thing that didn't even have a proper name. He decided perhaps he'd give Dean a call and pick his brain about this one; that kid was almost as good with cars as Bobby was and besides, it'd been way too long since he'd talked to either one of the Winchester boys.

The Hunter had just grabbed a beer out of the fridge when one of his three cell phones started ringing and when he went to investigate he found it was his personal cell, which was usually not a good sign. Because the number of people that had this number and called it was approximately three. And Rufus was somewhere deep in the Mississippi mud so that left only…

"Boys? Bout time I heard from you!" It was Bobby who started the conversation because even though the number came up as 'unknown' he knew it was them. He was just musing out loud on how he'd been about to call for Dean's help when he realized that no one had actually said anything on the other end, he'd just been rambling on.

"Sam? Dean? You there?" More silence and then Bobby's heart tightened at what he'd missed the first go around. Strained breathing that sounded almost choked.

Panting.

"Sam! Dean!"

"Bobby." His voice was just a whisper but he could tell it was Sam on the end, could tell by the desperation that bled out of the single word.

"Sam, where you at boy?"

"Out front."

"What?"

"Dean's hurt. Can't lift him. Help." The words were broken and Bobby knew from experience that the breathiness to them meant that Sam was trying not to cry. There was something else in the background of the call now too, a scrabbling, shuffling noise. "Please, Bobby."

But the older man was already in the front of the house, wrenching open the front door so harshly that it almost fell off the weak hinges he'd been meaning to fix. Sure enough, there sat the Impala, not in the driveway but in the front yard, parked at such an angle that it made Bobby's blood run cold.

"Sam!" There was the younger boy, face framed through the driver's window and Bobby could see it was covered in blood. The driver side door almost went the same way as the front door and then Bobby was kneeling on the grass.

"Dean," Sam said, swallowing hard. In the back of his mind, Bobby recognized the stench of vomit and blood, but at the moment, he was concerned with the swaying Hunter in front of him. He'd never seen Sam – never seen anyone – look that pale and still be upright. There was a giant gash up near Sam's hairline that had split the boy's skin wide open. Blood was still oozing out of it and yet the edges were curled up, as if the wound was a day old. Bobby grabbed Sam's face in one hand, turning it this way and that, a preliminary inspection.

"What happened?" he demanded, now moving down Sam's arms. The boy yelped at one point and drew away.

"Dean," he insisted through gritted teeth, jerking his head toward the backseat. "Help me carry him inside."

Reluctant as he was to step away from the obviously-injured Sam, Bobby shifted his attention to the unconscious Dean. His face was clear of blood but the color of his skin had moved past pale and gone to such an ashen gray that the first thing Bobby did was reach for a pulse, insides going weak with relief when he found one. Thready and weak but present.

"What happened?" he asked again. There was a towel tied around Dean's lower right leg and it was heavy with blood, leaking onto Bobby's hands as he unwrapped it. "Oh, Sam," he said a second later when he saw the injury beneath.

It was a huge gash from knee to Achilles tendon, cut right down to the bone, Dean's skin gaping wide open in a way that made it seem as if it was leering up at Bobby. Not only that but Bobby could plainly see dirt and bits of glass stuck in the wound as well and as he watched, the muscle inside of Dean's leg twitched. He swung his gaze around to Sam who seemed transfixed.

"I don't know," Sam said. His teeth were red with blood. "I don't know, it just, he just, I don't know," he babbled and Bobby was starting to figure that the boy in the driver's seat was almost as beat up as the one in the back, if not physically then psychologically. Bobby's own head was spinning at the sight and his heart was beating ten times too fast in the way it always did when the boys – _his_ boys – were badly injured. Because what would he do if he lost one of them or god forbid both of them? They had fixed themselves right down to the core of his being in a way that no one had since Karen. In a way no one would ever do again.

"Sam, focus," Bobby said, snapping back into himself. He let go of Dean's leg long enough to wave a hand in front of Sam's face, tapping it lightly to get the boy to look at him. "Get out of the car," Bobby said. Slowly but firmly, because when Dean was hurt, Sam seemed to flail. There were times when he'd gone completely stone cold frozen; Bobby had seen it before and he reckoned he was seeing it again now.

It took a while for Bobby to make a plan on how to get Dean out of the car without hurting him more than he already was and in the end, Bobby cradled the kid's shoulders and head and pulled him out while Sam waited to grab onto Dean's legs, making sure not to let the injured limb hit the ground.

They were halfway up the porch stairs when Sam fell.

Bobby didn't know if it was ice or the cut on his forehead or sheer exhaustion but he saw Sam stagger just a second before the gangly Hunter hit his knees, Dean's legs falling out of his arms. The force of his wound making impact with the ground was enough to jar Dean out of consciousness and he woke in a spasm, back arching as he cried out.

"Easy, easy," Bobby said, wrapping an arm around Dean's torso. The green eyes were open but they were nowhere near focused as his mouth opened again and a strangled scream came from it. "I gotcha," Bobby said, knowing that Dean was in too much pain to hear him but not being able to stop the flow of words. "We're gonna get you inside and get you good and cleaned up, okay? Easy, Dean, c'mon boy, just relax." It tore at Bobby's heart to leave Sam crumpled in the snow but there was only so much he could do at once. Still murmuring to Dean, he scooped him up bridal style and carried him up the stairs.

"S'm," Dean panted. "Nee' S'm."

"What you need is to eat less hamburgers," Bobby grunted. He eyed the stairs leading up to the guest bedroom and decided not to try his luck. They were running low on it as it was. Dean's eyes rolled upwards as Bobby set him on the couch and for just a moment, he seemed to find his surrogate uncle and latch onto the sight of him.

"B'bb?" It was little more than a gurgle of consonants but it made Bobby's heart flip over. He swallowed against the sudden constriction of his throat.

"Yeah kid, it's me. I'll be right back."

Sam was up again and holding onto the railing when Bobby went out to get them. Without a word, Bobby wrapped one of Sam's arms around his shoulders, not even huffing when the much taller Hunter leaned heavily against him.

"They were so strong," Sam said as they got through the front door. "So big. So sharp."

"That'll happen," Bobby said, real casual like as if they were having a normal conversation. "But you did good, getting your brother out of there." Sam landed in the armchair opposite Dean with enough dead weight to make the chair slide backwards a couple inches. "Listen here, I'm gonna triage your brother then we're gonna fix you up so you can help me with him the rest of the way."

The first thing Bobby did was put the kettle on, leaving it with the burner up to the highest heat. Then he took the stairs two at a time and started pulling supplies out of a linen-turned-medical-supply-closet. He hesitated after pulling out an oxygen tank and then grabbed a second one. It took three trips up and down the stairs to get all the supplies he needed and then he laid it all out on the coffee table in a meticulous fashion.

Back when it had become clear that Bobby had turned into the Hunter that every other Hunter looked to for advice and stability, he'd gone and gotten himself some proper training. He was sick of beat up men coming to with wounds dripping pus and not knowing how to deal with them. So, he'd enrolled himself in EMT training and gotten a certificate and everything in the end. Not a lot of people knew that, but hell, he figured he'd saved some lives with it and that was good enough for him. It certainly was going to come in handy during the next several hours.

"Okay," he said. "Let's see what we got, huh?" He was talking to keep the tremor out of his hands and also to keep the younger Winchester focused. Sam's eyes were trained on his brother as Bobby fixed an oxygen mask over Dean's face. Then he went about setting up IVs. One for fluids in the boy's right hand, one for antibiotics in his left, and one in the left forearm. Sam let out a grunt of surprise as Bobby produced a bag of dark red blood.

"Yep," Bobby said as if Sam had asked a question. "Ever since you two started getting yourself into scrapes, I've made sure to have your blood types on hand." He slipped the third needle into Dean's vein and taped it to the boy's skin. "Dean here has the rarest blood type of them, you know that?" Sam shook his head and Bobby continued. "Yeah, he's AB+. Less than one percent of these guys out here." He patted Dean's arm gently and then stood, shaking a few pills out of a bottle and breaking the seal on a bottle of water. "But you are a universal donor, so you've said Dean's life a good few times. How's that, huh?" Bobby held out the four round pills and Sam took them automatically.

"What are they?" he asked, having finally pulled his gaze away from Dean. Bobby's continuous talking was doing the trick; grounding Sam in the here and now, giving him something to hold onto.

"Advil," Bobby said apologetically. "Can't give you anything stronger just yet 'cause I'm gonna need your help with your brother." Sam swallowed the pills as Bobby pulled up a chair and took a washcloth to Sam's face. Despite himself, Sam hissed at the contact to the open wound and drew back until his shoulders hit the chair behind him. Bobby stayed still.

"I know," he said. "But I gotta get you stitched up."

"I'm fine," Sam insisted, starting to rise, but collapsing back onto the chair when Bobby put a firm hand on his shoulder.

"No, you ain't," the older Hunter said. "And you're gonna sit still while I stitch up your face, Sam Winchester, or so help me God. We ain't got time for you to be stubborn right now." At that, Sam's eyes moved back over to Dean who was still unconscious. His breathing had eased somewhat but there were two spots of color high on cheeks that hadn't been there before. Bobby had covered his leg with a blanket but it was as if Sam could see right through the patchwork quilt to the mess below. He gritted his teeth and nodded, sending a searing pain through his skull.

"Just do it," he said, keeping his eyes locked on his brother. "Do it fast."

Bobby went as fast as he could but the two open flaps of skin on Sam's forehead were ragged and thin and involved meticulous work. By the time, the last stitch was placed, both men were sweating and Sam's hands were shaking from the pain of the needle piercing him.

"Okay," Bobby said, leaning back and feeling his back crack in three different places. With gentle hands, he wiped Sam's forehead clean and applied antibiotic cream and a bandage. "Off with the pants." Sam, who had slumped against the armchair, glowered at his uncle.

"No."

"You know the drill," Bobby said, throwing the bloody gauze into a nearby trashcan. "I gotta see every part of you, make sure you're not missing something." He eyed the younger Winchester. "Or hiding something."

"But Dean-,"

"Will be fine for a while longer," Bobby promised, throwing a glance over at the couch. Like Sam, he was itching to help Dean but he knew that he was going to need Sam's help. "You gonna unbuckle that belt or do you need me to do it for you?" Still glaring, Sam dropped his pants to the ground, wincing when the material slipped over his knees.

"Ah," Bobby said, creeping closer again. "Bet this is why you fell outside."

Sam's left knee was purple and swollen to the twice the normal size. It was impressive the kid had been able to walk at all, let alone drive or carry his brother as far as he had. After a quick assessment, Bobby decided nothing was broken and wrapped a bag of frozen peas around the joint.

"Anything else?"

"No." Bobby raised his eyebrows and Sam sighed, shrugging off the button down he wore. Bobby shook his head when he saw the boy's disfigured right elbow.

"You been hiding a dislocated elbow this whole time? What is with you Winchesters and your need to suffer as much as possible? C'mon, stand up and let's get it popped back into place. You need something to bite on?" Sam shook his head miserably and Bobby followed the hobbling boy over to the doorframe so Sam could brace himself against the wood structure. He hated being so brusque when Sam was hurting so badly, but it was the only way Bobby could keep himself together. If he were being honest with himself – which he was trying very hard not to be – he was freaking out on the inside. The cut on Sam's head had been worse than he anticipated and he hadn't even started examining Dean.

"You mind telling me what you two were after that messed you up too bad?" Bobby asked after he'd pulled and tugged and manipulated Sam's elbow back into it's socket.

"Werewolves," panted Sam, cradling the injured arm. Bobby held out another bag of frozen food – beef chunks – and Sam took it.

"More than one?" Bobby asked, surprised. The lupine usually ran solo, but it wasn't totally unheard for a pair of mates to stick together for a while.

"A whole pack," Sam said, sitting down again and sticking his injured leg out in front of him. Bobby had brought him a pair of sweatpants and now they went to work easing a new shirt over his abused arm.

"That's ain't right," Bobby said, doing up the buttons of the shirt like he dressed Sam every day of his life. "You sure they were werewolves?" Sam shrugged then winced.

"Took 'em down with silver bullets. Was a full moon too."

"This world is getting stranger by the day," Bobby muttered.

Once he was sure that Sam wasn't going to fall over or bleed out, Bobby switched his attention to the older Winchester, pulling up a chair he'd brought in from the kitchen.

"Hey there, bud," he said, sweeping a hand across Dean's forehead, stomach somersaulting at the heat radiating from the boy. Dean's eyes were closed, his eyelashes looking impossibly long. His shallow breaths were fogging up the oxygen mask and his hands were curled loosely at his sides.

Bobby bit his lip as he withdrew the blankets from the wounded leg and unwrapped the temporary bandages that had already bled through.

"He's going to be okay, right?"

"Of course," Bobby said without thinking, even though the leg looked even more of a mess than it had out in the car. "Balls," Bobby breathed. The skin around the injury was bright red and stretched tight, taking on a shiny appearance – all certain signs of infection. Not that Bobby had long dwell on the problem.

"I think he's waking up!"

He was.

Dean's whole body seemed to rumble with a groan as he shifted on the coach, muscles clenching at the pain.

"Easy," Bobby said, laying a hand on Dean's good leg. "Sam, talk to him, keep him calm while I get stuff ready."

"It's okay, Dean," he heard Sam whisper as he stood. "You're gonna be fine."

The water he had kept boiling on the stove was poured into a basin in which he dropped each medical instrument: the closest thing he had to sterilization. While those sat, he laid out bandages and towels and grabbed a magnifying glass from the library. When everything was ready, he knelt beside Sam.

"Hey, kid," Bobby said when he saw Dean was still awake. The boy was coated in sweat and trembling but aware. "Sam and me are gonna fix up your leg and then you'll be good as knew."

"I-," Dean started to say but Sam shushed him, reaching for a hand and cradling it between his own.

"We'll take good care of you," Bobby said, uncapping a syringe. "I'll even save you a piece of pie." Without warning, he eased the needle into one of the IVs. "This here is morphine, Dean. I'm gonna knock you out with it so I can work on your leg."

"That's not safe," Sam argued and injured as he was, Bobby resisted the temptation to smack him upside the head.

"Of course it is," Bobby soothed, recapping the syringe and setting it aside. Already, Dean's body was starting to relax into the couch. The toes of his good leg had been curled into themselves and now they loosened. "I'll see you when you wake up, kid," Bobby said as Dean's blinks grew longer and then ceased altogether.

"Do you know how easy it would have been to overdose him on that?" Sam said once his brother was under.

"Yes," Bobby said, sliding down the couch and unwrapping Dean's leg again. The limb was starting to smell faintly of rot. "But better take the chance than have him out of his mind with pain." Sam gaped at him, eyes narrowed in disbelief and suspicion.

"C'mere and hold the magnifying glass," Bobby said, ignoring the young Winchester. "I need to see all these little bits stuck inside."

He felt Sam take the object from his hand but was too focused on cleaning out the wound to realize that the boy had fallen silent beside him. It wasn't until the sound of heavy breathing started that he tuned into the fact that Sam was not helping him. In fact, the boy had edged away from the couch – from his brother – until he was now a good five feet away. The magnifying glass was still in his hand.

"What are you doing?" Bobby said. "Get over here and help me."

"He's going to die," Sam said. Hazel eyes were fixed on the injury beneath Bobby's calloused hands as if they were seeing it for the first time. "That's bad. He's going to die."

"Nobody is dying," Bobby said.

"I have to go," Sam said. He stood up, his bad leg almost giving out, but he managed to make it all the way across the room before Bobby caught up with him. "I have to go," he repeated. Bobby folded his hands across his chest so he wouldn't be tempted to reach out; he knew better than to try to comfort a Winchester physically. It was hard enough to do with words alone.

"Sam."

"I _have_ to go _._ "

"Sam, I know you're scared." Sam's eyes flashed.

"I'm not scared. I just can't – I don't -,"

"Where are you gonna go with your arm and leg busted? Not to mention that concussion I'm betting you have going on. Come sit down."

"I don't feel well," Sam said. He sounded like a child again and almost looked like one, with his shaggy hair and innocent expression. God, he was so frightened and Bobby didn't know what to do to help him.

"I know," Bobby. "Come sit down."

"I have to go," Sam said but allowed himself to be led back to his chair. Bobby waited until he didn't look like he was going to bolt and then pushed more water into his hand but Sam was breathing too heavy to get a sip in.

"Take this for a moment," Bobby said, handing Sam the second oxygen mask. The boy waved it away, the first glimmer of himself coming back. "If you don't take it, I'm going to strap it on," he warned and Sam did, taking several deep breaths.

"Now," Bobby said after a couple minutes. "We are going to do everything in our power to make sure Dean doesn't die, but he's in bad shape right now. He needs you. Needs you to be there for him. Because he'd do it for you in a heartbeat. You know that."

"I know," Sam said. "Dean would do anything for me." His cheeks were still pale but he reached down and switched off the oxygen tank, straightening in his chair. Settling beside Dean he held the magnifying glass with one hand and in the other, he gently picked up Dean's hand.

"I've got you," Sam whispered. "I've got you."

xxx

It took Bobby nearly three hours to clean out and irrigate the wound properly. He was no surgeon but he felt that once he got it patched up, it didn't look so horrible. The line of black stitches was jagged and thick, the edges rising up like mountains on a globe, but it was done and he was confident he'd done as much as he could for the moment. Still, he wasn't sure it would be enough.

Sam was asleep, having dropped the magnifying glass a long time ago. He was slumped over the couch, head on Dean's chest so that his hair tickled his brother's chin. Sam's long fingers were still clasped around Dean's limp ones and it was that sight Bobby turned away from as he covered Dean with a sheet, hiding the red lines that had spread up his thigh in the direction of his heart. The newest evidence of a raging infection.

"Sam? Hey, Sam."

"Whaa?" Sam woke with a jerk and then winced, his free hand rubbing at his head. "What's wrong? Is he-,"

"He's fine. I just finished with the leg. Let's get you upstairs to bed."

"No," Sam said, leaning back over his brother. His right cheek was red from the heat of Dean's body. "I'm not leaving him."

"You'll just be upstairs," Bobby said. He was anxious as all get out, strung up on a thousand wires at the thought of what was happening to the boy on the couch. He needed Sam to get some sleep, needed Sam to take care of himself. So that Bobby could at least say he helped one of them. Saved one of them.

"I'm staying here," Sam said, practically growled.

"Okay," Bobby said and went about cleaning up the mess he'd made. Sam didn't even

turn around until Bobby had dragged the coffee table out into the hallway and hauled in the mattress from the guest room.

"Now you can stay together," Bobby said, dropping a pillow onto the bed. He eased another one behind Dean's head, removing the simple throw pillow that had been there before. Sam peered up at him through glazed eyes, a combination of exhaustion and unshed tears. The ice pack from his knee had slipped off and Bobby picked it up, juggling it in his hands. It was nice to have something to hold onto. Sam's voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

"Bobby, what if… I can't…"

"Get some sleep, Sam. I'll be here in the morning. We all will be."

xxx

And even though Sam was out almost as soon as he shifted himself onto the mattress, and even though Bobby was so tired his body felt numb, he couldn't rest. He cleaned up some more, washed all the dishes that had been accumulating in the sink, and even tried to read. The last was a useless attempt at acting like everything was normal when in fact, nothing was normal in the worst way. It was easier to act like this was every day business than it was to admit to himself how scared he was. Scared that Dean wasn't going to make it. That he would slip out of this world and into the next within one simple breath while Bobby wasn't looking.

So Bobby looked.

He brought in a chair from the kitchen and wedged it in between the couch and the mattress. Sam had hardly moved since he'd laid down and Bobby took great comfort in the rhythmic rise and fall of his sleeping breaths. Unlike Dean's, which were harsh and shallow. Sam's sweatpants had rucked up so that his injured knee was exposed and Bobby took it as an opportunity to sleep a new ice pack under the swollen joint. The boy didn't even flinch. Then he sat in his chair and watched.

He watched the way Dean's breath fogged up the oxygen mask and he watched the way the boy's eyelids fluttered every so often, as if he were dreaming right there in front of Bobby. The Hunter traced the lines of Dean's face, memorizing every plane, every angle that he could. The boy looked so much like his father, from the square set of his jaw to the messy hair, even the way his stubble grew in just a little bit patchy.

"You, uh, you probably don't remember this," Bobby whispered to him, "but your Daddy brought you to me when you were real little. Sam was even littler of course but you were so small Dean." He sucked in a breath, leaned his elbows on his knees, and continued, words brushing over Dean's still body. "I could count every one of your ribs, kiddo. You'd been giving your food to Sam. Had pneumonia too; you were a downright mess." Here Bobby paused to draw in a shaky breath and he found that a lump had formed in his throat.

"But I took care of you then and I'm gonna take care of you now." Bobby's shoulders lurched forward as that lump in his throat became a sob and he caught it with a hand to his mouth, burying his head in both hands. This was too much. He wasn't supposed to be burying his boys, it was supposed to be the other way around. Dean was supposed to grow old – or at least hit goddamn forty years old. He had his brother to take care of, his car to drive, pool tables to hustle. He had so much more life to live.

A tugging on his sleeve brought his attention out of the blackness of his mind and Bobby looked up, spots dancing in his vision where his palms had pressed against his eyelids. When they cleared, familiar green eyes were staring back at him.

"Hey," Bobby said, wiping a rough hand over his eyes. "Hey, there." A corner of Dean's mouth quirked up ,but when he tried to speak, it came out as a gut-wrenching cough. The kind that made Bobby's toes curl in his boots.

"Easy," he said, propping another pillow under Dean and removing the oxygen mask to the boy could sip from a straw. It was a purple plastic straw that looped in the middle – Bobby had found it in the back of his silverware drawer and as he plunked it in a glass of water, he remembered buying a pack of the things at the dollar store when Dean was about eight. He remembered being so happy that eight-year-old Dean Winchester still had a desire for things like crazy straws.

"Sam?" Dean whispered.

"He's fine. Sleeping," Bobby said, sitting down in front of the boy again. Dean's cheeks were fevered, his eyes glassy but present. The boy was craning his neck as much as possible so Bobby took the hand closest to him, wincing at how cold the fingers were. How the blood had already stopped pumping to them in an effort to keep Dean's heart beating as long as possible.

"Here," he said, lowering Dean's whole arm so that it hung off the couch. The tips of Dean's fingers brushed against Sam's wrist and the older boy's whole body seemed to sigh in relief when contact was made. "He's got a busted knee and elbow, and a good size cut on his head, but he'll be fine."

"'s good," Dean muttered. His breaths were getting shorter, the rattle of his chest more pronounced and Bobby's heart sank when he realized that there was a good chance fluid was building in his lungs.

"I'm real proud of ya," Bobby said. Dean blinked up at him as Bobby ran a hand through the boy's hair. "You're a good boy, Dean."

"Mmm," Dean rumbled. His gaze was fixed on Bobby's face, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. "I'm dyin'?" he asked and the resignation in those two words just about killed Bobby Singer then and there. He wanted to scrape back the chair and rise, flee to the back door and just leave. He didn't want to have this conversation. "Don'…lie," Dean warned. His eyes closed but Bobby could tell from the way his lips were pursed that he was still awake.

"Yeah," Bobby said at last. "Yeah. Werewolves got you and if we brought you to the hospital, they'd lock you up. Can't guarantee that we'd get you out this time. You ain't a jailbird, Dean." He was rambling, the sentences stringing themselves together on a string of panic, dangling in the space between him and the dying boy. He braced himself for tears or anger or anything except what happened next.

Dean's body relaxed into the couch, as if he'd been holding himself up until that very moment. His eyes – which had opened during Bobby's speech – closed again and a true smile graced his pale lips.

"I'm gonna see my mom," he sighed. "S'okay, Bobby. Gonna see…my mom."

"Yeah, you are," Bobby said, not even bothering to hide the new tears. It was almost time to wake Sam, to let him say goodbye. "Your mama is waiting for you at the gates. Karen too. She'll have baked you a pie. That's how she always," his breath was ragged, "she always baked me a pie when I got home from trips."

The boy's eyes flew open and his fingers rose from the floor and scrabbled at Bobby's until the older Hunter clutched at them, surprised by the strength at which Dean's tightened around his.

"You'll take care of Sammy?" Dean asked all in one breath, words clear but full of worry.

"Of course. You know I will."

"Don't let do somethin' stupid, Bobby," Dean pleaded. "He's smart but kinda dumb, ya know."

"I know," Bobby said, laughing through his grief. Dean nodded and his fingers went lax. Bobby gripped them tighter.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"Right here,"

"I…remember."

For a moment, Bobby thought he'd misheard the slurred words but then he caught on."

"When I was little," Dean continued, chest heaving now at the effort it was taking to talk. Bobby needed to wake Sam, to give the two of them time together, but he wanted to be selfish and hear what Dean had to say. "And you took…care of us. Real good."

There was a single eyelash on Dean's face and Bobby brushed it away with the pad of his thumb, letting his finger linger on the soft skin.

"Thanks."

There was no need for Bobby to say anything back. Dean had spoken his bit and Bobby had heard and understood. Dean remembered and knew that Bobby loved them – had loved him since the moment he'd laid eyes on the frightened little boy on his doorstep. He was no longer a little boy but there was still a hint of fright on his fading features, an anxiety that would only be soothed when he took his last breath in less than an hour.

So Bobby leaned down and pressed his lips to Dean's forehead, as he had done so many times after tucking him back into bed after nightmares. That's what he was doing now, he told himself, as he unlinked their fingers and moved to wake Sam.

He was tucking Dean in one last time.


End file.
